


Plan B

by florahart



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Undercover as a Couple, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Clint are undercover as a couple, but alas, they are being observed and need to look involved in private.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plan B

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. Undercover as a couple turns into porn has been done before. And yet, I wanted to do it again.

Phil's been uncomfortable about this op since about two seconds after he glanced through the mission brief, and now he's gone from uncomfortable to outright worried about the outcome. 

It's not that he has a problem with letting his face and hands play out affection and infatuation -- no, _actual_ affection (and all that goes with it), he's terrible at, but on an op, it's just acting, right? And Phil may usually just call the shots these days, but he was a field agent before that, and he's played any number of roles and games on six continents. 

But. 

This is Clint, and that makes it less game, more complicated, because although he has told himself repeatedly that he will never, not ever, betray this willingly by word or deed, Phil has A Thing for Clint. A Thing that occasionally makes him feel like he's twelve or fourteen again, coming to terms with his confusing (and disapproved-of) sexuality and trying to cope with crushes and urges without letting on to anyone who will tell his dad. A Thing which has been getting steadily worse for the better part of eight years now, and which this is bringing distressingly, perhaps irretrievably, close to the surface. A Thing Clint is going to see any minute, and damn it, it's going to fuck things up.

The trouble is, Phil truly had no legitimate reason to object to the assignment, and it's a high-level operation but it should have been a milk run (yeah, thinking this in the first place, allowing it to take up even a bare instant of his consciousness ever, that's what doomed everything. Illogical, but Phil's been around the block a lot of times, and this has always been how it works). Which is why, less than fifteen minutes after they arrive at the resort, Clint has Phil backed up against a tree in a mostly-private garden with the ocean a quarter-mile away--a _young_ tree, trunk maybe 8 inches in diameter, and while this is better than no cover at all, it occurs to Phil immediately that they wouldn't be in this position if all were well. He feels exposed. Or maybe that's just Clint's proximity, leaning in to whisper words that literally touch his ears. 

Thirty seconds ago, Clint's hands were between them, his body angled so that the hand signs -- eyes on us, seven o'clock, danger-warning-trouble -- would look like unbuttoning. _Twenty_ seconds ago, Clint's hands had dropped lower and he'd met Phil's eyes then glanced down for more signals at waist level -- retreat, Plan B -- (what? There's not a Plan B that looks like this! Milk run!) and then he'd actually started unbuttoning Phil's shirt.

And Phil is ...flushing with both a surge of lust (damn it, body! Not. Fourteen!) and trying to keep up with Plan B and Clint is looking at him with trust-me eyes and leaning in to speak. "We're blown unless we move fast. Gotta sell this. Do my best to make it painless," he whispers, lips brushing the shell of Phil's ear and hands still working on buttons. "You good?"

Phil can't help himself. He turns in toward Clint's neck and jaw, right there against his skin, and gasps a little, but he forces himself to murmur, "Plan C?"

"Sniper behind you now, too. None come to mind," Clint says, and he has Phil's shirt open, his waistband undone, and he's mouthing sloppy kisses down Phil's chest, nosing at the scar and moving past it before Phil can do more than gather enough brain cells to begin the thought that if he's going to look death in the face either way, at least dying of Clint's lips is a hell of an okay way.

Clint stops, crouched but still on his feet, and looks up. "Good?"

Phil pretends the sound coming out of his mouth isn't a whimper, then he licks his lips. "Sure?"

Clint nuzzles at the sparse hair on Phil's belly, tapping code against Phil's inner thigh where no watcher could possibly see: _I can take out one, not both._ He looks up as he drags down Phil's zipper, and mouths, "I can blow the mission, sir, or I can blow you."

Phil can't see the operative behind him, and while he's found the first one, at his seven o'clock, he doesn't have anything on his person with which he can make that shot, and no cover that's not ridiculous. And he doesn't want to risk--Clint will protect him with his body (again; this isn't new but after Manhattan he's been told fairly specifically he is not to risk himself again), so if anyone gets shot, it will be Clint. Shit. He closes his eyes. "You didn't answer me, before." Even if the guy can read lips, that's not an unreasonable thing to say.

Clint rolls his eyes and shoves open the front of Phil's pants. "You know I wouldn't offer." He's returned to the trust-me eyes, and Phil nods. 

"Do it."

Phil has no idea when the guy at seven o'clock concludes they really are a couple on a retreat together; he's too busy moaning and sliding down the tree (he's going to have scrapes. He's probably going to take a picture of them because _oh god, Clint_ ) as Clint follows him to the ground, mouth and tongue busy on him as he sprawls on his belly between Phil's thighs. It isn't until Clint closes his eyes, focusing on Phil with his hands and lips alone, that Phil realizes they must no longer be in danger, but Clint doesn't stop, and Phil, because he is apparently not a good person, doesn't try to tell him to.

No, instead, he lets Clint take him over the edge and past, and then look up, eyes cautious, mouth swollen and red. "So... Plan B was successful?" he says a little uncertainly, pulling away and licking his lower lip.

Phil tries to figure out how to give a professional and appropriate answer, given that his dick is wet with Clint's spit and his come and is going soft against the fabric of his fly. Finally, he shakes his head. "Why didn't you stop?"

Clint's eyes shutter more, and he pushes up to his hands and knees and rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "I like to see things through, once I commit."

"I know." Phil frowns. "Clint, I know. I wasn't asking because I was upset, just, I was asking because you obviously knew they were gone."

Clint's brows knit into a scowl, a surly one, the kind of look he gives someone hurting a child. "And?" he grumbles, the tone one of irritation at being challenged.

"And..." Phil is going to point out that it is definitely not in Clint's job description to allow his handler to fuck his mouth, but all at once he blinks. He blinks because Clint is often a smartass, a pain in the ass, and inclined to gripe and grumble, but with Phil, hasn't acted like he is acting right this moment since the day they met, since the time Phil explained to him that he was wanted and valuable. Since the last time he felt like they (like Phil) didn't need him. ...Oh. "And... I'm. Can I, shit. Idiot. Me not you. I need, it's just, I want to. ...Fuck. I want to not sound like I am a fucking teenager with a crush, I have the crush, I'm pushing fifty, what the fuck. Jesus. I want to return the favor or gesture or neither of those because that sounds like a cold trade and I want. Shit. You."

Somehow, Clint seems to have derived meaning from that series of profoundly disorganized words, because he tilts his head a little, a movement that can be the falsely casual move of an experienced and skillful agent, but which is in this case, and Phil knows this because he has been watching Clint for a long time, the evidence of relaxation. 

Phil bites his lip. "Plan B 2.0: come here?"

"Already pretty close to you, sir."

Phil shakes his head. "Want you closer."

Clint drops his chin for a second, then lifts himself over Phil's leg and comes up next to him in the shade of the tree. "Better?"

"Not until we even things up a little."

"One, not a race. Two, really not necessary."

Phil's stomach churns a little. Did he misread? 

Clint waves a hand toward his own crotch. "Uh. I've wanted an excuse to do that for a long time. And I'm going to need a little while first, I mean. Also not a fucking teenager." His ears go pink, which is so fascinating to Phil that it takes him several seconds to tear his attention away and look, to see the wet patch on the front of Clint's jeans, and to do the math. 

"Oh. Okay."

"That all you got?"

"No, but I thought we weren't racing. But if we are, I'll start with this: can I kiss you?"

Clint looks around, which might be sort of insulting in anyone else, might be a gesture of will-anyone-have-to-know, but for him it's just threat assessment, then closes his eyes again (safe, Phil surmises, but he looks around too while Clint isn't, because this is what they do) and leans in. "I wish you would, sir."

"I'll try to make it painless."

Clint snorts and flips Phil off, then grabs the far side of his shirt and hauls him in, pulling him to straddle Clint's lap and sliding his hands down the back of Phil's pants.

"We still have a mission," Phil murmurs between kisses.

"Mhm," Clint says. "Two birds. Lulling the natives and--jesus. And getting to do this."

Phil nods. "Efficient. No extra paperwork."

Clint chuckles and squeezes Phil's ass. "I liked it so much I'd volunteer if there were."

"I don't know what to do with such an open confession of love," Phil says. He means to be light with it, but his long history of being crappy at relationships means he notices a little late that maybe that's a little much. He adds, "Uh, you hate paperwork. So I just meant, you know."

Clint stills for a second, then mutters, "Call it that if you need a label. I'm sure you do, you love labels and rules, I do hate paperwork, maybe coming makes me a little stupid, take that however you want, please shut me up now?"

Phil nibbles his way along Clint's jaw and scoots himself in closer, chest to chest. "'Kay."


End file.
